Just Another Sunday

I pick the berries like a virgin picks sins—
softly, with both hands and a little anticipation.
They bleed on my fingers,
sweet and stupid.
God, they smell like summer's inner thighs.

I am naked except for the apron
that says “Plant Daddy” in ironic script.
The world is ending at 4:16 p.m. sharp.
It’s 9:03 and I’m sifting almond flour
like a priest shaking ash.

Somewhere, missiles or meteors or
marauding gods in debt collector shoes
are buckling the atmosphere like bad knees.
CNN’s on mute.
My man is still asleep, drooling on the pillow
like the angel he isn’t.

I cube the vegan butter with precision.
This crust will be divine.
No survivors doesn’t mean no standards.

Outside, the basil sings its green little song.
I water it gently—
each leaf a final note in a hymn
to futility.
I kiss the tomato vines
because no one else will.

The coffee pot coughs awake.
It sputters like an old man
recounting war stories no one asked for.
French roast. Extra bitter.
Like me.

The pie goes in.
The house fills with that smell:
baked sugar and impending doom.
The timer is unnecessary,
but I set it anyway.
Thirty-five minutes.
Long enough to pretend
this is just Sunday.

He wanders in,
shirtless, sleepy,
scratching himself like a dog with rights.
“I had a dream we were safe,” he says.
I say nothing, hand him coffee..
He smiles like he doesn’t believe in clocks.

I serve the pie.
The crust flakes like old secrets.
The filling steams like prayer.

He moans a little. “This is amazing,” he says,
and I forgive every stupid argument
about socks on the floor
and excessive Amazon orders.

Outside, the birds are losing their shit.
Even the bees have stopped pretending.
Sky’s gone the color of an old bruise.
The kind your uncle calls “weather.”

He asks if I’m scared.
I say: “Only of underbaking.”
He laughs. He always laughs
when I’m being a bitch about nothing.

I kiss his forehead.

The windows rattle.
The cat climbs into the sink.
The pie is half gone.
The coffee’s cold.
I feel lighter.

No more emails.
No more rent.
No more We regret to inform you.
No more Your payment is past due.

At last—
my student loans will die
with me.
Praise be.
Sallie Mae,
I'll see you in hell.

We hold hands.
The ceiling trembles.
He squeezes.
I squeeze back.

My last words?
“Goddamn, that crust was perfect.”



Poetry by Antonio
Read 41 times
Written on 2025-06-19 at 05:03

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